


The look back

by littleendprep



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drabble Collection, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26531059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleendprep/pseuds/littleendprep
Summary: Getting to the bottom of what the real deal was between Klaus and Dave, based on what we know of season one Klaus and season two Dave.Disjointed moments and feelings - may coalesce into something more like a story
Relationships: Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This might get re-edited, just starting to feel out what I think about the two of them.

Dave helped him when he could, though it seemed pointless. He didn't know he needed real help, and he didn't notice when he got it. He couldn't use his gun but he huffed and waved you away if you tried to teach him, then complained that his pants were the wrong size, then asked if they flattered his behind even just a little bit. He asked Dave to help him sneak into the supply tent to get some new ones and pushed out his bottom lip like he'd just been refused his birthday wish. He asked until Dave went along with it just to change the subject. Dave let him stick around, then wondered why, and did it anyway.

He was too pretty, like a girl almost, and weak like a girl too. One day the other guys were going to blow him over, Dave knew that. If he knew it, he didn't let on. 

\----

Klaus knew the game. Find the optimal combination of strong and nice in the room and stick on them so they can't shake you off. Klaus called it friendship, or a fling, or simply having a type, and believed it. Diego called Klaus a barnacle. "Are we talking a sexy barnacle, or more sensitive?"

Klaus couldn't decide if this brand of nice was the kind that was straight up decent, the whole nine yards of white picket fence and Sunday sermons, or the kind that came from a wounded soul pleading every moment of every day for the rest of the world to like him. Now _that_ , that was Klaus' type.

He did have wonderful posture though. Whenever he walked away Klaus couldn't take his eyes off his back, the way the muscles around his shoulder blades caved in when he swung his arms, pulling in the folds of his shirt. Or the way his upper body pivoted on those perfect hips to look bewilderedly back at Klaus hopping and skipping to catch up to him. He always shook his head then and kept walking, exchanging looks with the other guys. But that was okay, Klaus was an old hand. A little closet shame was par for the course.

And anyway Klaus knew, if the game got too hairy, or too boring, or the looks got that little too far over from mocking to mean, there was the suitcase. Klaus could leave any time he wanted.


	2. Not a good place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... this is not going to be chronological or structured in any way I don't think.
> 
> I do not know as much as I should about the Vietnam war. Apologies now if that gets distracting.

Klaus woke at a bump in the road. The bus rode through an alien countryside, the greens incomprehensibly deep, trees flattened either side of the road to better see whatever might come out of the woods. Klaus peered stuffily out the window, trying to remember what was going on.

Tattered rags. Faint moans collected by the wind as the bus sped by.

Oh. Yeah.

Death has a different quality, wherever you see it. It responds to where it came from and where it's going. Death needs to know the why of itself, and when the whys are all the same, death steals who you are. The dead on the side of the road there, they stood like misplaced children, staring at their feet. Sometimes they looked up to the side, as if just noticing something they'd been waiting for, and then seeing it wasn't there after all they looked down again. Some were still walking, the burns that obliterated their clothing eating into joints so they shuffled lopsided. But they still fled, from their villages, their farms, further than living legs could take them without giving out. In the world there are the dead who know they're dead, the dead who want something, who beg, who claw, but here they just went on like the living, going through the motions of survival, just waiting for the war to end.

Klaus wondered what happened to them when the waiting was over. 

Klaus needed a drink.

The inside of the bus dripped, the sweat of the men condensing on the metal and coming down to greet them once more. It was tight, enclosed, a little too dark. Not a good place. Klaus swung a gaze around the strangers and remembered a man who'd said hello, who'd seemed unfathomably cheerful in a place this fucking hot.

There he was, a few seats back. Klaus caught his eye, and managed to plaster on a grin. He gave it back, unguardedly nonplussed. Well gosh, was that endearing.

"Oh, hey. I was just wondering if this ride might go easier for us all with a little something to grease the wheels…"

A couple of whoops rebounded, a call of "sure would". 

He laughed.

"What, you mean a drink? Well I think we were gonna wait til after lunch but seein' as you're new and all… hey Romano, you ready to crack into your stash?"

"Romano" let his face spread a slow smile, dipped slowly under the seat and lifted a bottle of something brown towards Klaus.

"After you."


End file.
